


Bury Me in My Sins

by Corrosive_Moon



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AZIRAFELL, Anal Sex, Angel Crowley (Good Omens), BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Biting, Coming Untouched, Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Demon Aziraphale, Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fallen Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gaslighting, Hannibal TV show vibes, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Restraints, Rimming, Rough Sex, Spanking, Sub Crowley (Good Omens), Table Sex, Undernegotiated Kink, Verbal Humiliation, azirafell has one speed: FAST, nonconsensual mindreading, reverse au, sadistic azirafell, sadistic aziraphale, somebody help Anthony J Crowley, that table is actually the unsung hero of this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:07:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27196252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corrosive_Moon/pseuds/Corrosive_Moon
Summary: The Archangel Raphael—who prefers to go by Crowley—is tasked with smiting the demon, Azirafell, and somehow finds himself having afternoon tea with him.  Maybe if he was a better angel, Crowley would have seen how inadvisable it was to socialize with a demon, but 6,000 years is a long time to go without a friend…“Oh, you poor, sheltered thing…” the demon purrs.  “Shall I show you all the things they told you to deny?”MIND THE TAGS.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 135
Collections: Top Aziraphale Recs





	Bury Me in My Sins

The Archangel Raphael, who prefers to go by Crowley, knows his day is about to go down the gutter when the Archangels Gabriel and Sandalphon show up at his flower shop to give him an assignment. A letter would have simply sufficed. It wouldn’t have made his day any less shittier, but at least it would have spared him from looking at his siblings’ faces. They don’t even have the common courtesy to appear on his front doorstep and knock. They just materialize into his space while Crowley is in the middle of watering his orchids.

Crowley has to physically will himself not to roll his eyes as he straightens up and faces his kin.

“Hey there, Starshine!” Gabriel greets. “A demon is in Soho and we need you to take care of it, Raphael.”

“It’s ‘Crowley,’” Crowley mutters, more out of habit than anything. He’s been going by ‘Crowley’ for millennia, and he has a feeling that Gabriel deliberately ignores it. 

“…Sure,” Crowley replies, because Gabriel won’t move on until he acknowledges his assignment in some fashion. “Sounds good.”

“That-a-boy!” Gabriel thumps him on the back with an open palm. Crowley grits his teeth and wills his knees not to buckle. “You got this, champ!” 

Crowley wants to slam his fist into Gabriel's punchable face. It's a bullshit assignment. Sandalphon is much more suited for smiting demons than Crowley is. And yet the balding Archangel is lurking on Crowley’s opposite side, sneering disdainfully at a lavender plant. 

“Right,” Crowley says instead. “I'll let you know when I take care of him.”

“And try to write something a bit more substantial on your report, 'kay? The last one was a little lackluster, Raph. Could use a bit more effort.”

And they leave with a chime and a flash of light.

Crowley’s certain Gabriel comes down just to aggravate him. Or to check if he's managed to Fall or die or otherwise put himself out of the other Archangels' misery. It's the main reason Crowley stands proud and tall at every unannounced visit.

_That's right, you pompous asshole. I’m still here. I still got my white wings and halo and everything. Sorry to keep disappointing you. S’what I do best._

\---~*~---

Crowley knows about the demon that’s been living in Soho for the past two hundred years. Really, he’s surprised it took Heaven this long to notice with all of Gabriel’s passive-aggressive intrusions. But Heaven has always been rather narrow-minded, if Crowley is being frank. Though he’d never openly admit it. 

He and Azirafell passed each other a grand total of two (2) times since the demon took up residence.

The first time was in 1977. Crowley remembers because it was the same year _The Spy Who Loved Me_ came out and definitely not because of any chance encounters with occult beings. Nope. No sir. Crowley was walking to his Bentley after a night at the cinema, when he felt a demonic presence nearby. He halted, looked around, and saw Azirafell across the street, strolling towards the direction of the bakery he called home. Crowley had seen a dozen or so demons in his time—had smote a few on occasion—but he’d never seen a demon like Azirafell. Broad shoulders drawn upright in a perfect carriage, curly salt-and-pepper hair brushed back, neatly trimmed full beard, and a comfortably-padded corporation in dark clothes that were maybe a hundred years out of date. Unlike his other skulking ilk, with their general confusion towards earthly habits and hygiene, Azirafell could easily pass for a human. Albeit, an unusual one. The demon was holding a box full of pastries from the French bakery down the street. Azirafell caught him staring, smiled, and continued on.

The second time was December 31st, 1999, New Year’s Eve. Crowley was at a bar because he didn’t particularly feel like drinking alone. He sometimes craved the bar scene in a way that humans sometimes craved fast food. It was something you’d get when you wanted something that was unhealthy for you. Crowley envied the humans in the bars; they were so free and uninhibited there. The angel was watching the revels around him, soaking up the excitement and quelling a few verbal altercations with a bit of heavenly influence. So it was a surprise when a drink—a simple tumbler of smokey, expensive bourbon—was slid to him. 

“Compliments of the gentleman in black, sir,” said the bartender, inclining his head to Crowley’s left. 

Crowley turned and saw Azirafell enjoying a similar drink at the far end of the bar. The demon lifted his glass in greeting. Crowley looked between his new beverage and Azirafell, repeated the action twice more, and then fled. It wasn’t his proudest moment. 

In sum, Azirafell seems pretty all right. Certainly not the big, bad adversary described in Heaven’s orientation. The demon hasn’t really done anything since he took up residence in London, at least nothing Crowley has noticed and nothing beyond what the humans would inflict upon themselves. And, if Crowley is being honest, he feels it’s kind of a dick move to smite a demon for no reason. Azirafell never barged into Crowley’s flower shop. So Crowley never barged into the demon’s bakery. 

“A demon respects my space more than my own siblings…” Crowley mumbles under his breath as he trudges to Azirafell’s home. “What’s the world coming to?”

Though he knows where Azirafell lives, he’s never been there. The angel pauses a moment to take in the quaint bakery before him. The dark-red paint is old, but rather well-kept, the lettering, “A.Z. Fell and Co. Baked Goods”—at this Crowley snorts— is painted in neat, gold letters. For any human passing by, it is a regular old building with a flat above it. 

“Right. Here we go,” the angel sighs as he ties his long, red hair back into a ponytail. Crowley closes his eyes, inhales deeply, and reaches out with his angelic senses.

A myriad of wards surround the bakery, all geometrically and meticulously interlocked into a barrier that obstructs all kinds of creatures on multiple planes of existence. As Crowley looks closer, he finds that there are _layers._ There are weak alarms and magic circles splayed like red herrings on the first tier that are linked to the deadlier traps woven neatly underneath so well-hidden that if Crowley didn’t have a penchant for detail, he wouldn’t have seen it. It’s beautiful, actually, and very telling of the occult being that resides within. 

A cunning and dangerous demon lives here.

As his corporation paces outside the shop, Crowley’s real body surveys the barrier from all angles. The protections spanned all around the bakery, even underneath. There was no gap left open, he would have to tinker at the wards in order to gain access. Azirafell and humans pass in and out of the building unharmed. There has to be a way in without tripping the wards. The front door saw plenty of traffic, therefore it was likely the best place to start. 

There was an alarm that Crowley easily diffused with a delicate tug to reveal the magic circles beneath. The angel carefully reads the rules outlined within the wards.

The most prominent one read, “ _This abode and every item within in it belongs to…”_ and here there is a sigil that Crowley guesses is Azirafell’s signature.

The magic circle displayed below it is a charm written in neat, but oddly persuasive, lines that stated, “ _Buy one more sweet. You know you deserve it. Just one more. It won’t hurt.”_ Crowley could have guessed that Azirafell’s default sin to sow was Gluttony.

And then came a more serious one, drawn in grandiose, imperious lines: “ _If you mean no harm, you shall pass unharmed._ ”

Lastly, written in definitive lines that made Crowley’s skin prickle: “ _Angels shall not enter.”_ That one is going to be tricky. 

Among the woven threads of magic, Crowley sees a line that doesn’t belong to any of the circles at the door. He follows it upwards and nearly goes cross-eyed as he searches for the ward it connects to. It’s buried under a few arrays (one of which is guaranteed to either melt an intruder’s eyes or rip their soul out of their corporeal body), and the angel works tenaciously to isolate the ward in question. To Crowley’s utter surprise, it’s a mechanism similar to a password lock on a computer. If he’s reading correctly, all he needs to do is fill in the quote below and it will grant him passage, regardless of the rules at the door. 

Crowley groans as he reads the quote. “ _Hamlet._ _Really??_ ” He sighs. 

_“What a piece of work is man!”_ The ward reads. _“How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty! In form and moving, how express and admirable!”_

Crowley lifts two nimble fingers and writes with his ethereal energy. “ _In action how like an angel! In apprehension how like a god!”_ [1]

The ward thrums and energy surges out. The door audibly unlocks and swings open. Crowley takes one last cursory glance to make sure there are no secret traps anywhere, and steps inside.

The bakery is dark despite the afternoon sun pouring through the windows. It doesn’t appear that Azirafell even opened shop today. There are no sweets in the display cases, not even a crumb. Crowley summons his staff into his hands. He spies a door beyond the counter, likely an entrance to the kitchen. He opts for the door off to his left, which probably leads deeper into Azirafell's home.

Crowley finds himself in a long hallway. The walls are painted with thick, alternating black and gray stripes. There is a solid, off-white wooden paneling with an elegant trim that nearly came up to Crowley's waist. The floor is made of vinyl wood. The ceiling is painted in the same color as the wooden panels.

A shudder runs through the angel as the door swings shut behind him. Crowley shifts from his usual saunter into a hunter’s silent walk as he goes. Despite his formal title as The Healer and Star-Maker, he’s been trained to fight, as was expected of all angels. While it’s not something he’s built to forget, it’s been centuries since his last battle with a demon.

Due to Azirafell’s long-standing residency, the area is saturated with occult magic. It makes it difficult to search for Azirafell when his energy is all around him. Crowley continues walking until he reaches a fork in the path. He looks left and right and sees nothing more than walls. No landmarks or décor or doors.

‘The bakery didn’t look this big on the outside,’ Crowley thinks to himself. His stomach drops when the realization sinks in. He’s in a maze. 

Crowley curses low under his breath. This is going to be harder than he thought it would be. The angel considers the two paths and figures left is a good place to start. He scrapes an arrow pointing left into the floor with his staff and continues. Crowley read once that the best way to get out of a maze was to follow the left-hand side. Now seemed a good a chance as any to try it out. He finds himself at another fork, draws another arrow, and takes another left. 

Three left turns later, Crowley considers turning back. He feels like he hasn’t been getting anywhere. He turns and retraces his steps to the previous divergence. Crowley frowns at the unmarked floor.

“I know I scratched an arrow here…” he says. 

Crowley jogs to the last fork and, once more, doesn’t see his mark. The angel shudders. Is there something else here with him? He casts his senses wide, trying to catch anyone—anything—but all he can distinguish in the demonic energy around him.

‘Just stay calm,’ Crowley orders himself and keeps walking.

Predictably, it doesn’t work. Within minutes, Crowley is starting to feel unbearably claustrophobic. He breaks into a run, sprinting left or right at any fork until his corporation nearly collapses. He’s panicking. He’s furious. He has to get out. Crowley calls a sphere of energy into his palm and hurls it at the wall, and then another, and another in mounting frustration. To his utter disappointment, the wallpaper is barely singed. 

Chest heaving, Crowley staggers backwards and slumps to the ground. The angel draws his legs up to his chest, wraps his arms around his knees, and sighs deeply. He’s probably going to be trapped here until either Azirafell kills him or Gabriel realizes he’s missing. And knowing Gabriel, he probably wouldn’t notice something was wrong for at least another couple years, if Crowley was lucky.

…Would he even come rescue him?

‘Not bloody likely…’ Crowley thinks bitterly. ‘He’d probably be happy if I were gone. Maybe send Azirafell a fruit basket and a thank-you note.’

Crowley feels tears sting the back of his eyes and he shuts them tightly.

‘No!’ he berates himself vehemently, dropping his forehead to his knees and clenching his fists. ‘Suck those tears back up, Crowley! You are _not_ going to cry. You’re a goddamn Archangel, so act like one!’

 _If I acted like an Archangel, I probably wouldn’t be here,_ a traitorous little voice whispers. _I’d be up in Heaven like the rest of them. Maybe they would’ve sent Sandalphon to deal with it._

Crowley sighs. 

‘Sandalphon would’ve probably gotten his eyes melted at the front door…’ He thinks. ‘Big, bloody brute, he is. No imagination.’

The last word catches in his mind. Imagination. If there is one thing Azirafell has, it’s imagination. The bakery’s barrier is _art_. All those stunning circles and—

“Layers!” Crowley exclaims, leaping to his feet. That’s right. The barrier has decoy wards that draws attention from the real trap beneath it. Like a magic trick, a little misdirection to hide the sleight of hand. Crowley scrutinizes his surroundings, traces the simple pallet of three colors with no decorations or obvious markers.

An easy pattern to replicate. 

He thought that the unusual amount of demonic energy surrounding him is just because he’s in Azirafell’s home, but that isn’t completely true. It’s another trick. He isn’t in a maze. He’s been walking in place this whole time, with the illusion reconstructing in front of him and deconstructing after him.

‘That’s why my marks haven’t been showing up…’ Crowley reasons. 

The angel kneels onto the floor, feeling for the current of occult energy. There doesn’t seem to be another magic circle hidden underneath, but as entrenched as he is in this illusion, he won’t know what’s waiting for him until he breaks it. The angel holds his staff tightly in one hand and splays the other on the ground. Crowley takes a deep breath and shoves a pulse of ethereal energy into the floor.

The fake hallway shatters at once, revealing a much shorter and thankfully more realistic hallway. Crowley sees small imperfections around him; scuffs on the floor, a few chips in the paint. He looks farther and sees two doors on his left to indicate two bathrooms and another door at the end of the hall with a sign that says ‘Employees only!’ 

The angel makes his way down the hall and nudges the door open with his staff. There’s a flight of stairs leading up to one, last door. A sliver of light emanates from the slim space beneath it. 

The demon is there, in that room just beyond. Crowley can feel it. He ascends the steps as quietly as he can, pauses at the threshold, and breathes evenly to steady himself.

Crowley bursts through the door, raises his weapon defensively, and…

…sees Azirafell sitting primly at a table, having tea.

The angel surveys the room. He’s in a drawing room that perhaps initially meant to be minimalistic, mysterious, and elegant once upon a time. The walls are painted in deep, coal black and the ceiling is pristine white. On the opposite wall there are floor-to-ceiling windows and there is a mantle and fireplace by Crowley’s left. However, the room is overwhelmed by an abundance of fine décor spanning from various fashions. It’s as if the curator enjoyed the lavish look of the decoration, but disregarded style entirely. There are elegant, embroidered gold curtains on one window, sheer cream curtains with hand-painted flowers on another, and the last window boasted hideous burnt-orange, taffeta fabric curtains. The artificial, orange light filtering through the windows indicates that it’s evening. There are several chairs of various colors, including a pair of luxurious, dusty-blue armchairs, a white over-sized wingback lounge chair made of white goatskin, and a pink, French style, chaise lounge. There are skulls of various goat species hanging over the mantle which give an unsettling feeling of being watched. In-laid shelves flank the fireplace, displaying clusters of little nicknacks and art pieces that would make any renowned museum envious. Paintings from multiple art movements hang on the walls that depict a wide array of subjects from adorable animals basking in the sun to shrieking human souls in eternal torment.

Azirafell is seated in the goatskin lounge chair at a circular table near the center of the room. 

“Well done,” the demon says warmly. His striking blue eyes with their goat irises glance up at Crowley briefly before turning his attention back to the delectable full service tea in front of him. There are a couple three-tiered trays that hold the sweet treats and savory sandwiches. The porcelain tea set looks new and unused with handles twisted in tight spirals that make Crowley think of a horned animal. 

The demon is dressed in what would have counted as casual in the 1800s. Charcoal-colored waist coat and matching trousers, pocketwatch with an obligatory goat design, cream-colored button-up, and well-worn black, leather loafers. Azirafell hums a merry little tune as he pours himself a cup. 

“What are you doing?” Crowley asks.

Azirafell sets the teapot down. “I thought it was obvious: I’m having tea.”

That doesn’t entirely answer Crowley’s question. “ _Why?_ ”

Azirafell fixates him with a pointed look as he scoops six heaping spoonfuls of sugar—Crowley’s stomach curdles with disgust—into his teacup. 

“Why not?” he says simply. The demon angles his chin towards the empty seat across from him. “Won’t you join me?”

Crowley really isn’t much for food, in general, but this is by far the most interesting interaction he’s had in the nearly six millennia he’s been stationed on Earth. So he dismisses his staff, slouches into the offered seat, and considers the spread before him. 

“Make a habit of inviting angels to your table, do you?” Crowley mumbles.

Azirafell shudders. “Not particularly, no. Most angels are terribly uninteresting. Not like you, my dear,” he adds with a smile and raises his teacup to Crowley in salute. The angel, unexpectedly, feels a thrum of warmth at the praise. “I think you’re the first one to figure out my labyrinth.”

“Not really a labyrinth if you’re just walking in place.”

He expects the demon to glower at him, but instead Azirafell beams. “Well, you’re not wrong. And wonderful work on my barrier, by the way. It’s so nice to find another fan of ol’ William.” 

“Never really liked _Hamlet_ , actually. I prefer his funny ones.”

“Is that so? I do like the drama of _Hamlet_ though. Murder, insanity, suicide… So very entertaining.”

“Yeah. That’s a word for it.” 

The demon casts another glance at the trays. “Eat,” he says. “I promise it’s not poisoned.”

As if to prove his point, Azirafell takes a scone from the top tier and bites into it. He lets out a soft, appreciative moan that borders on sexual. Crowley swallows uncomfortably. Just to see what would happen, the angel shoves a whole cucumber sandwich into his mouth. Azirafell gives him a pointed look at his table manners, but says nothing. Crowley picks up another sandwich and consumes it in a more mannerly fashion. It’s quite good, actually. 

“Shouldn’t you be fighting me?” Crowley blurts out.

The demon dabs his lips with his napkin. “Why?”

“Angel. Demon. Hereditary enemies? Get thee behind me, foul fiend?”

Azirafell laughs. “My dear boy, you’re adorable when you’re spouting the company line.”

“Adora—!?” Crowley sputters. “I am _not_ adorable!”

“Of course you’re not,” the demon replies mildly.

Crowley glares. 

“I’m Azirafell, by the way.”

“I know. I’ve seen you a couple times.”

Azirafell smiles as if he’s been waiting for Crowley to say that all evening. “And what happened to ‘get thee behind me’? You’re contradicting yourself, Archangel Raphael.”

“It’s Crowley, actually.”

“As you will. Why haven’t you attacked _me_ , then? I’ll answer your question if you do the same.”

Crowley fiddles with his teacup and shrugs. “Didn’t seem fair. You weren’t really doing anything. The only reason why I came here is ‘cause Gabriel told me to.”

Azirafell hums. “My answer is similar. You left me alone, so I left you alone. You like humans, don’t you? Aren’t they just _fascinating_ things? So passionate, so free, and yet so alarmingly brief. They’re like supernovas.” The demon wiggles his fingers, which apparently is meant to denote the catastrophic explosion of a star.

“I hardly have to do any wiling, if at all,” Azirafell goes on as he transports another scone to his plate and Crowley picks up a smoked salmon sandwich. “The humans are more than capable of inflicting atrocities upon each other. I usually make sure I’m at the right place at the right time, just to prove I was there, and then report my success Downstairs.”

Crowley gapes at him. “Don’t... don’t they check…?” he asks.

“My dear, why _would_ they? That’s how it is with Upper Management. Look how long it took for Heaven to order you to confront me. My lot are a very narrow-minded sort. They show their faces now and again to swagger around and make themselves feel important, but their heads are so far up their arses I'm surprised they remember how daylight looks like.”

Crowley can't help himself, he throws his head back and laughs. He doesn't remember the last time he laughed like that. Not in a long time, certainly, and definitely not with any of his brethren. 

“Could say the same thing about a few of my co-workers,” the angel says, quietly.

Azirafell leans forward, a corner of his mouth hitching up into a smirk. “You could say it. Right now.”

“No!” Crowley stifles a chortle.

“Come now, no one’s watching us here. I won’t tell.”

“You’re trying to tempt me. It’s not going to work,” Crowley asserts, resolutely.

Azirafell sits back and drains his tea. After a moment, he takes a bite out of the teacup. (Crowley now understands why the tea set is new.) The porcelain crackles sharply as it gives way to infernal teeth. Azirafell munches, unperturbed, like one would consume a biscuit. Crowley forces himself to stare at his sandwich and ignore the high-pitched sounds of teacup pieces grinding together in the demon’s mouth.

Azirafell swallows and says, “…The Archangel Gabriel looks like a real wanker.”

The angel snickers. “He is!” He admits. 

“Can you imagine that face delivering news to the Virgin Mary? I would have punched him.”

Crowley claps his hand over his mouth. No, it’s too unseemly to keep laughing. He and Azirafell are still on opposite sides, regardless of what the demon said. He regains control over himself and prods at his smoked salmon sandwich in consideration.

Azirafell, however, seems intent on continuing the conversation. He pours tea into another nearby teacup. “How about I tell you something about Hell? It’ll make us even. Duke Hastur smells like shit.”

The angel chokes with laughter. “You—You’re doing this on purpose,” he wheezes out with no real ire. “You’re trying to get me to asphyxiate and die.”

“If that’s all it takes to get rid of you, then you’re too boring to be worthy of my company.” Azirafell sips his tea and sighs happily. 

Crowley chuckles as he turns over his tea sandwich again. 

“Stop that,” Azirafell snaps. “Either eat it, or don’t.”

“Sorry…” the angel mumbles, and eats.

“How long have you been stationed on Earth?” The demon asks.

Crowley shrugs. “Something like six thousand years.”

“Quite a long time. I’ve only been around the last two millenia or so.”

“What were you doing before?”

“Oh, rising up the ranks in Hell. One doesn’t become a Duke by being idle, let me tell you.”

They chat for some time, comparing the places they’ve seen and the human marvels they’ve witnessed. Azirafell talks about establishing his bakery, while Crowley tells him about his Bentley. It’s nice to finally talk to someone about Earth, about humans. Heaven has no real value of human life or ingenuity. To the Head Office, humans are more akin to points on a leaderboard. So long as Heaven had more souls than Hell, there is little else of concern, and Crowley finds it easy to tell Azirafell this.

“Tragic, isn’t it?” Azirafell says. By this time, the demon has single-handedly consumed eight teacups and nearly every morsel on the trays. Crowley is still nursing his singular cup of tea. “Hell has a similar outlook about humans. They don’t want to deal with them more than they have to. That’s why they’re happy to keep me here, rather than send another demon.”

“…Seems like our sides really are more alike than not,” Crowley says. 

“Indeed.” Azirafell snaps his fingers. A decanter and a couple tumblers appear on the table. The demon pours a generous measure into a glass. “Do you like scotch?”

The scent of high-priced alcohol hits a memory nerve in Crowley’s brain. For a split second, he’s back in 1999, looking at the demon from across a bar.

“Erm, sure,” the angel replies. 

Azirafell sets the tumbler in front of him and pours a drink for himself. Crowley notes with some amusement that the stopper is in the shape of a goat’s head and the tumblers have the same motif casted in a frosty silhouette.

The angel takes a swig. “S’good.”

“Isn’t it?” Azirafell beams. “I picked up a few cases of this when I was in Scotland a few decades back. I love the hint of vanilla on the nose.”

“Why did you buy me a drink?” The angel says suddenly.

“Beg pardon?” Azirafell asks, furrowing his brows. 

“Before. 1999. New Year’s.”

“Ah. That. Well. Why does one usually buy a drink for another in a bar?” The demon responds cryptically, taking a slow sip of his scotch. He smacks his lips. 

Crowley swallows. Yes, he knows the answer. One doesn’t walk with humans for six millenia without being familiar with the pleasures of the flesh. Crowley lived in Rome back in its ancient heydays, though he left shortly after Caligula came into power. He’s tried out masturbation both with a penis and a vagina, the angel's inquisitive by nature, after all. In Crowley’s opinion, it’s an all right way to pass the time, but he prefers sleeping. He knows the mechanics of sex and that it can, theoretically, be very pleasant. Crowley liked a few humans, yes, and many have propositioned him, but humans are also bright, fleeting things. It seems inadvisable to grow more attached to them than he already is. So there isn’t much motivation to make the effort (small 'e’) to have sexual relations with them. Other angels are obviously out of the question. 

Azirafell watches him intently from the other side of the table. “You’re very beautiful,” he says.

Crowley’s fingers tense against the tumbler. He feels Azirafell’s gaze like a weight on his skin, making his cheeks flush. “We shouldn’t…” he responds. “I’ve—I’ve never…”

“Haven’t you ever wondered?”

Crowley has. He’s wondered a lot. He’s wondering right now, actually. “I’m an angel,” Crowley mumbles. “I should be a… paragon of virtue. Or whatever.”

“Oh, not this again…” Azirafell huffs, rising from his chair. “Our respective Head Offices don’t actually care what we get up to here. As long as we do our jobs, why can’t we have some fun on the side?”

The demon leisurely walks around the table, drink in hand. He stops in front of Crowley and takes a long sip. “And I rather think you and I could have a lot of fun, if you’re amenable,” he adds, dropping his voice to a low murmur that makes Crowley shudder.

“How about this,” suggests Azirafell. “I'll play the big, bad demon. And you can be the poor, unwilling Archangel in my grasp.” He sets his glass down, just on the outside of the angel’s arm. Crowley irrationally contemplates how nice the demon’s hands are. Well-manicured and plump. He almost doesn’t catch Azirafell’s next words.

“If Heaven asks, just say I forced you into it. You’ll indulge in what you like, I’ll take the blame, and Heaven is none-the-wiser. Fool-proof.”

In the far, far back of his mind, Crowley is aware that Azirafell is a demon. He is tempting him, as demons are liable to do. He should refute Azirafell, like any sensible angel should do. 

And then what? 

Crowley thinks of the two most angelic courses of action he could take. (1) Battle Azirafell and win. (2) Battle Azirafell and lose. Provided that option 2 only ended with his discorporation instead of permanent demise, it dawns on Crowley that both options would lead him to the same endpoint. 

_“Oh, you smote a demon, did you, Raph? Nice! You’re an Archangel after all, Starshine!”_

_“So you failed? Guess we should have sent someone better, Raphael.”_

Should he really deny Azirafell when the demon has more substance than any angel Crowley has ever met? The last few hours he spent with Azirafell were unlike anything he ever experienced on Earth. Like the first breath of fresh air after breathing in nothing but smog and dust.

Crowley fidgets with his tumbler. “No one… no one will know?” He asks, quietly. 

The demon grins. “It’ll be our little secret,” he whispers.

Azirafell slowly reaches out—more than enough time for the angel to pull away—and carefully grips Crowley’s chin. 

“Oh, you poor, sheltered thing…” the demon purrs. “Shall I show you all the things they told you to deny?”

Something twinges in the back of Crowley’s head, like an instinct to rebuke. Azirafell’s eyes are on his face, dark and heated. Crowley tries to make his mouth work, but his tongue feels heavy. He nods instead.

“No, dear,” Azirafell murmurs, brushing a thumb over Crowley’s lower lip. “I need you hear you say it. A yes or no will suffice.”

The angel’s face is hot. His heart is hammering in his chest. 

“Yes,” Crowley whispers.

He’s suddenly thrown forward onto the table. The decanter tips over and their tumblers shatter on the floor. Crowley’s panting, fingers splayed on either side of his head. A strong hand presses between his shoulderblades, pinning him down. The angel looks over his shoulder to see Azirafell behind him. The demon ignores the broken glass entirely, eyes roving down Crowley’s body. Instinctive panic sets in. Crowley scrambles to push himself up, but the hand is firm.

“Wh-what are you doing?” He asks. “Let me up!”

“Ah, yes, that's good,” Azirafell murmurs, leaning down to whisper conspiratorially into the angel's ear. “You're getting into it already. See? I knew you could do it.”

Azirafell's body is near-blazing. Crowley feels compelled to grind against him. The demon buries his nose into Crowley's hair.

“Beautiful,” he sighs. “Such a lovely shade of red.”

The angel shivers. He’s been complimented before, but never like this. 

‘Act like you don't want it,’ Crowley reminds himself. He slides one knee up and uses the leverage to try and twist up and out of Azirafell's grasp.

He's shoved back down so hard the breath is knocked out of him. Strong hands grab his wrists and yank them behind his back. There is a snap of fingers and something cold and unholy clamps over his wrists. Crowley gasps in surprise as his Grace unceremoniously pulls away like the low tide. His ears are ringing. His lungs are breathless. His muscles are weak. He is left stranded, trembling, and defenseless.

“Do excuse the Hellfire shackles, dear boy,” Azirafell coos, barely audible as the ringing in Crowley's ears fade. “It's difficult to capture an Archangel, afterall. One must take all the necessary precautions.” 

“N-no…!” Crowley manages as fear—real fear—claws up his spine. “No, let me go!”

“Hush now, or I'll gag you next,” Azirafell winks. Without further ado, he grabs the back of Crowley's light pink button-up and yanks hard, tearing the fabric open. Nails rip his tight jeans into shreds and soon the angel is lying in the tatters of his ruined clothing.

Crowley is hyperventilating, he knows he is. This is happening, he's letting it happen. He asked for this. A demon is going to… going to…

Azirafell's palm comes down hard on his right buttock, making him yelp.

“Pay attention, Crowley,” Azirafell growls. 

The demon spanks his other cheek and keeps going. Hard, unyielding strikes that jolt the angel’s thin frame and mottle his flesh. Crowley yowls, tries to squirm away. Azirafell grabs Crowley’s neck to pin him in place. Nearly a dozen blows later, Crowley is reduced to ragged, incomprehensible sobs. He's stopped struggling. 

Azirafell tsks in disappointment. “What shameful behavior for an Archangel.” 

Like a sharpened knife slotting between ribs, Azirafell's words sink unerringly, mercilessly, into a vulnerable spot inside Crowley. An Achilles' heel he's shielded for millenia, covered with pride and overlaid with sarcasm. 

“...I am,” Crowley sobs and he feels like he is breaking open. “I am shameful.”

He's always been different from his siblings. He wasn't like Sandalphon, the Smiter, the enactor of divine reckoning. Not like Michael, the General, the beacon of heavenly justice. Not like Uriel, the Wise, the instructor of the sacred texts. Not like Gabriel, the Messenger, the carrier of God’s word. 

He is strange Raphael, the Healer and Star-Maker, the veritable black sheep. An Archangel more at home at Earth with humans rather than at Heaven with his fellow angels. An Archangel too peculiar to go by the name She bestowed upon him.

“I'm sorry…” Crowley says, weeping into the tablecloth. “I'm sorry—I'm awful, I'm terrible, I'm a piss-poor excuse for an Archangel. I'm s-s-sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm pathetic.”

The words spill out of him, helplessly. They pour out of his mouth like blood from an open wound. All the words his siblings said aloud and all the hidden messages between the lines. All the things Crowley would never admit.

“I’m pitiful—I’m—I’m—“ Crowley hiccups. “I’m unworthy.”

Azirafell, for his part, is oddly silent. It takes the angel a few seconds to notice this. The only thing the demon had done throughout Crowley's fit was to brush his damp hair away from his face. It was not a gesture of comfort rather than a means to improve his view. And, indeed, when Crowley gathers the nerve to look up, he sees Azirafell’s detached and curious expression. His dark head cocked to one side, his blue eyes completely unfathomable.

Something is creeping about the edges of Crowley’s mind. It’s a subtle feeling, but unmistakably there, probing like fingers into the angel’s thoughts. It’s the same feeling Crowley had just before Azirafell offered this Arrangement. Crowley realizes then, that perhaps Azirafell’s words weren’t a coincidence. The angel attempts to protect himself, shut away his thoughts, but with his mind scattered and his Grace chained he can do nothing.

Azirafell grins broadly. Crowley trembles.

“Poor dear…” the demon murmurs, reaching his hand out to smear a tear across Crowley’s cheek. “That's what you're really after, isn't it? For someone to punish you? But you see, sweet thing…”

Azirafell's fingers grip his thigh and effortlessly flip him over. The angel yelps as he lands hard on his abused arse, the shackles rattle loudly and dig into his back and wrists.

“Punishment entails an act you dislike, but what have we here?” The demon pins Crowley's thighs open, displaying his enthusiastically-hard cock. “Did you enjoy having your arse throttled?”

Crowley averts his gaze shamefully. “N-no.”

A snap of a miracle, and then plump, slick fingers encircle his shaft and Crowley gasps. His attention jerks to the demon, who is watching him with unabashed interest on his face and amusement curled on his lips. Crowley whimpers, trying and failing to wriggle out of his grasp. 

“Now, now,” Azirafell chides. “There’s no denying this. Not when it's so… _evident._ ”

The demon's hand moves slowly up and down his prick. Softened by the pain, Crowley can't help keening to the gentler touch. Azirafell bends forward and laves his tongue over his nipple. Crowley gasps and arches as the demon opens his jaw wide to suck the nipple and areola into his mouth. Azirafell moves, the buttons on his waistcoat drag uncomfortably along the angel's bare skin, to the next nipple and bites down _hard._

"Aah!" Crowley cries out. 

Azirafell holds his mouth there for a couple painful seconds, sharp teeth digging and hand still working languidly over the angel's cock, before leaning back. The demon makes an appreciative noise at the dark bruise already forming and dives back in to latch onto his other nipple. This time Crowley manages to brace himself for the teeth sinking into his flesh. Then Azirafell bites and sucks his way downward, marks blossoming in his wake. He nips playfully at Crowley’s decorative navel, just to make the angel fidget, and then bites into Crowley’s inner thigh.

"Look at you, still so hard…" Azirafell mouths into the skin, inches away from the angel's erection. He gives Crowley’s length a few lazy strokes. “Well, get on with it. Show me how much you like it.”

“No, no,” Crowley chokes. “No, it's too much—please.”

Which is, of course, when Azirafell takes his entire erection into his hot mouth. Crowley’s body tenses.

“Oh, _G—!_ ”

Azirafell shoves his fingers into the angel’s mouth, gagging him, and pulls off his prick with an obscene pop. 

“Your God isn't here, pretty pet. If you're to scream out names, then use mine.”

Fresh tears sting the back of Crowley’s eyes. “P-please,” he begs. “Azirafell, please stop.”

“Yes, good,” Azirafell hisses. The demon’s blue irises gleam unnaturally in the light. The white sclera completely engulfed in pitch black. “Beg me, Archangel, because She isn't here to grant you mercy.” 

Azirafell strokes the angel’s cock expertly, keeping the pressure tight, twisting his fingers a bit at the head. 

“Please, please,” Crowley sobs out. “Please, Azirafell, have mercy.”

The demon grins widely, teeth flashing. “No.”

Crowley comes with a sob, splattering cum over his stomach and chest before he sprawls bonelessly on the table. The demon lets out a pleased hum, drags two fingers through the mess, and pops them into his mouth. Azirafell moans, the same indulgent moan he made while he was eating that scone before.

“Delicious,” he sighs happily. 

Crowley’s head lolls to one side, panting. The few times he’d gotten himself off never felt like _that._ He’s pulled abruptly from his hazy pleasure when Azirafell wrenches his legs up and out, nearly bending him double. 

“Let’s see what the other parts of you taste like, shall we?” The demon asks.

“Whuh…?” Crowley manages to slur out before Azirafell bends down and seals his mouth over the angel’s puckered hole. 

Crowley thrashes, making some sort of high-pitched, animal noise. His heels involuntarily beat at Azirafell’s shoulders and back, but the demon doesn’t even acknowledge the blows. Instead, he presses in deeper and pushes his tongue through the ring of muscle. 

A choked gasp punches out of the angel. Azirafell’s tongue is a _scorching,_ silky, undulating thing inside him. It’s far too long and articulate for a standard human-like tongue. The angel has never dared to pleasure himself there, in such a filthy, private place. Yet the demon explores his inner walls with gusto. Azirafell is drooling over his entrance, obviously making a meal out of him.

Crowley can feel heat pooling again in his lower belly. His prick, which was lying spent and messy against his stomach, is already stirring with interest. 

And then the demon’s tongue presses against a spot inside him that makes Crowley’s entire body jerk and throw his head back with a shout. 

‘What was _that?’_ The angel thinks dizzily. 

He can feel Azirafell smirk against the apex of his legs, the demon’s facial hair rasping against the sensitive skin there. The demon nudges his tongue into that spot relentlessly while Crowley fidgets and gasps, cock eventually twitching up to full attention. Crowley’s entire body grows taut, fingers and toes curling, spine bending. Azirafell’s hands slide under his thighs to grab the outside of his hips and draw him close, thrusting his tongue into the angel’s prostate and wringing another orgasm from him.

Azirafell straightens himself as he miracles a dark, dainty handkerchief and dabs his face with it. 

“Might I say, dear boy, that you taste absolutely _divine_ ,” the demon chuckles at his little joke. Azirafell balls up the handkerchief with his fist, and puts the entire thing in his mouth.

While he watches the demon eat, Crowley vaguely hopes that they’ve finished. Maybe now Azirafell will let him go, or maybe they’ll go back to chatting over tea and sandwiches. He’d like that. 

The fantasy drops like a stone into his stomach when Azirafell undoes his fly and fishes his cock out. After a considerate hum, the demon snaps his fingers to lubricate it. Crowley’s eyes widen at the sight of his prick, thick and hard and glistening.

The angel plants one foot on the table and tries to scoot away. He’s still coming down from his orgasm, still sensitive. Azirafell merely hauls him back by his hips.

“Honestly,” the demon sighs, as if he were dealing with a child. Crowley is suddenly hit with how the demon is still covered from neck-to-toe, still prim and proper, while he’s lying naked and debauched with a pool of his own cum on his chest and stomach.

Crowley thought that his arse would be loose, fucked-open as it’d been by Azirafell’s tongue, but the head of the demon’s cock still feels too large at his entrance. He’s trembling, his breathing frantic and ragged.

“Please,” he begs, tears pouring from his cheeks. “Please, don't—“

Azirafell’s hips snap forward, burying his entire length in one brutal thrust. 

Crowley shrieks as his body is forced open, stretched wider than he thought capable. Azirafell grants him no reprieve to adjust to the sensation. He draws back, and shoves back in.

As the demon’s cock pounds into him relentlessly, he feels Azirafell invade his mind, the intrusion like greedy, skittering spiders in the angel’s head, uncovering every thought, every secret, Crowley has. The angel screams with the indignity of it. He is being flayed, vivisected, violated.

“Stop!” Crowley cries. “Please, it hurts!”

“That's the idea, dear,” Azirafell huffs out without breaking stride. “You agreed to this, remember? You wanted this. You deserve this.”

_I deserve this._

“Such a disgraceful angel,” the demon purrs. “If only Heaven could see you now, spreading your legs for a demon.”

“I don't—I didn't mean…” Crowley sobs. 

“Of course you did, Crowley. You could’ve left the moment you escaped my maze, but you didn’t.” Azirafell punctuates his last sentence by thrusting deep into the angel and making him scream. “Instead you sat at my table, dined with me, and offered yourself to me.”

“Noo… no, no, no,” he whimpers. 

“No wonder your siblings casted you out like a leper. They saw it, didn’t they? How different you were.”

Azirafell digs deeper into his mind and Crowley is yanked, viciously, into one of his least favorite memories. 

\---~*~---

_“No.”_

_“What do you mean, ‘no!?’’ Michael demanded. “The Rebellion is at hand. You’re an Archangel, Raphael. It is Her Will.”_

_“I’m not going to fight,” Raphael stated. He was created to cure the ailing and build stars. He didn’t want to fight, especially not other angels._

_Michael snarled and swung her sword furiously at a nearby pillar, cutting a deep gash into the white marble and sending debris everywhere. “You’re an embarrassment.”_

\---~*~---

“Stop,” Crowley weeps. “Stop, s-stop, please stop.”

“I don’t think so, pet,” Azirafell quips.

\---~*~---

_“I suppose someone has to go with them,” said Uriel. “Now that the humans are out of the garden, they’ll need minding.”_

_“I agree,” said Gabriel._

_The conversation halted. Michael drummed her fingers impatiently on the round table. Uriel and Gabriel turned to look at Raphael with a mixture of disdain and expectation. Sandalphon snickered._

_“Right,” Raphael said, dumbly._

_Silence. Even then he knew he would always remember that frigid, suffocating silence. It was like a wall that he would never scale; a distance he would never cross. They sat at the round table, where only Archangels were allowed to sit, where they were all supposed to be equals, and yet Raphael never felt so eclipsed and unwanted._

_“…I’ll go,” he said, at last._

_“Great!” Gabriel said too quickly._

_‘I deserve this,’ Raphael thought, back then._

\---~*~---

“They knew there was something wrong with you,” Azirafell insinuates. He shifts his hips slightly, pistoning his cock into Crowley’s prostate. The angel howls.

“They were right, weren’t they, Crowley?” The demon continues.

“Yes,” he whimpers.

“You deserve this. You deserve to be fucked by a demon. You deserve to be _wrecked_. Sullied.”

A choked, wounded sob escapes Crowley’s throat. “I do. I do!”

Who else could see his defective parts and not be disgusted by it? 

It’s too much; Azirafell’s scrutiny, his blistering cruelty…

Crowley’s orgasm hits him like a sudden, oncoming car. As he comes, one last time, his vision fractures. For a split instant, a millionth of a second, he sees Azirafell’s true form. 

He is a great, dark beast. Large and awesome in size, horrific and insidious in shape. Six horns surround Azirafell’s goat-like head, framing his eerie, bright blue eyes and three mouths. Two horns are spiraling out of his temple, two are curving out of cheekbones, and the last two are jutting out of his mandible. Several more horns branch out of his body like gnarled roots of a tree or groping, desperate hands. Two sets of handsome, salt-and-pepper-colored wings perch on his powerful back. More mouths—hungry, hungry mouths—are at every joint. Opening and closing, whispering and shrieking. 

When Crowley comes back to himself, the shackles are gone. The almost infernally warm trickle between his thighs indicate that Azirafell has finished inside him. The demon tucks his flaccid prick back into his trousers and smooths over the lines of his perfectly-pressed clothes. Uncertain of what to do now, Crowley hesitantly pushes himself up to sit, wincing as he goes.

“Well done,” Azirafell says, beaming. (Crowley has a minor bout of déjà-vu.) The demon’s already turning to leave. “You’ll see yourself out, won’t you? Best tidy up. As beautiful as you are, I think the sight of a naked man leaving my bakery would make the neighbors talk.” He chuckles. 

“Oh, and before I forget,” Azirafell pipes up. “They sent you to fight me, yes?” His wings burst into existence with a short gust of air. The demon curves one of his wings in towards himself. He hums as he threads his fingers through the primaries. Azirafell grasps a couple feathers and yanks them out with a soft grunt. A bit of black ichor gushes out, stains the demon’s wings and splatters onto the floor.

The demon approaches Crowley in a few strides and holds up the feathers. There are spots of inky black ichor along the vanes. 

“Here we are,” Azirafell says. He swipes his feathers under the angel's chin, from ear-to-ear, before tapping them lightly on Crowley's nose. “Your proof that you've tousled with a demon, dear boy. Should be enough, hm?”

Azirafell presses the feathers into Crowley's slack hand. A bit of the demon's blood is smeared just beneath his mandible, and on his palm. It burns, slightly. 

“Your turn, dear. Wings out.”

Crowley hesitates. A plea rises up the angel’s throat and dies on his lips at Azirafell’s stern look. With a whimper, his six pearlescent, white wings unfold. 

“How exquisite…” Azirafell murmurs, brushing the back of his knuckles along the feathers and making Crowley tremble. The demon’s hand stills over the down feathers where the base met skin on his back. “I think this will do. It would be a shame to ruin those pretty primaries.”

Azirafell rakes his hands through the wing, clawed fingers scraping against the manifestation of Crowley’s true form. The angel bites down hard on his lower lip to suppress a helpless cry. The down feathers come away rather easily. 

“All done,” Azirafell chirps, slipping the down feathers into his pocket. “I think we should say our fight ended in a draw. Less messy that way.” 

Crowley isn't sure if he can answer. His body is still shaking. His tongue is thick in his mouth. His cum is dripping into cold pools on the table. Azirafell sighs patiently and fists his crimson hair, making the angel bear his throat. 

“Crowley, dear, I need you to repeat after me: 'I fought the demon Azirafell. We were evenly matched. I managed to hurt him, and I got away.' Say it.”

“I-I…” Crowley stammers. “I fought the demon Azirafell. We were evenly—evenly matched. I managed to hurt him, and I got away.”

“Good boy,” Azirafell praises, releasing him. “And I'll say something similar to my Head Office. Now, off you go. You can use the backdoor down that way. Mind how you go. And do drop by again sometime. I'd love to have you again.”

\---~*~---

[1] From _Hamlet_ , Act 2, Scene 2.

\---~*~---

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost: I started writing this with the intention that it was going to be a Rated T, Reverse AU meet-cute that probably wouldn’t have broken 2k and would maybe end in a hot kiss and then… it… somehow… became this 8k bad kink monstrosity. *looks around wildly while shrugging*
> 
> All right guys, this is a pretty good example of how NOT to have a productive BDSM relationship. There IS an agreement to start a relationship, and then Crowley is thrown into it with minimal preparation or negotiation. The only time Azirafell slows down is, literally, to sit back and WATCH Crowley suffer. Azirafell does not love Crowley. He is fascinated by him. Crowley is intelligent, and yet sheltered and naïve. The only consistent semi-company he’s had for 6,000 years are his asshole siblings who put him down and make him feel like a freak. Crowley has always seen himself as defective and alone. Azirafell is deliberately manipulating Crowley by shaming and gaslighting him into accepting sexual abuse, which is **NOT** how consent works. This is a bad relationship with a one-sided power dynamic and I do not condone this type of behavior. 
> 
> Despite his atrocious BDSM etiquette, I actually really like writing Azirafell. His personality is a cross between Mads Mikkelson’s Hannibal from the _Hannibal_ TV show and canon Aziraphale with a bit more gluttony thrown in there. (Thus the reason why he goes from 0 to like 60,000,000 on a dime, lol.) He’s refined, manipulative, imperious, and indulgent. Everything the demon does has a purpose. When Azirafell says things similar to what Crowley thinks—i.e. when Crowley thinks “Heaven has always been rather narrow-minded” and Azirafell says later “My lot are a very narrow-minded sort”—that’s not a coincidence. Azirafell had been slowly creeping into Crowley’s mind the moment he walked into his bakery. The door and the “labyrinth” are a test. When Crowley sits down to have tea with him, Azirafell knows that someone interesting is at his table. 
> 
> I kicked around a lot of ideas about Azirafell’s animal familiar and I eventually settled on the goat because I like the urban legend that goats can eat anything and it’s great writing Azirafell just eating random items. Azirafell’s true form is 100% based on [this nightmare fuel.](https://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=https%3A%2F%2Fi.pinimg.com%2Foriginals%2F33%2F5c%2Fb4%2F335cb46a24398860aa27ffae34f5ba07.jpg&imgrefurl=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.pinterest.com%2Fpin%2F438115869984330057%2F&tbnid=s3iVaT6V3zrGvM&vet=12ahUKEwjnz4WAxtDsAhVe9qwKHcaFDdMQMygFegUIARCeAQ..i&docid=jy0UnAUMJtW5aM&w=900&h=819&q=eldritch%20horror%20goat&ved=2ahUKEwjnz4WAxtDsAhVe9qwKHcaFDdMQMygFegUIARCeAQ) Happy Halloween, y’all.
> 
> So this… may actually be a series… But since I’m erratic with my fics and I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up, I’m just leaving this story as is and if I ever polish up my ideas, I’ll make the necessary adjustments.
> 
> Ok, I’m ending this essay now, lol. Read on, guys. Read on.  
> |Corrosive Moon|


End file.
